‘Here it is,’ said Jago. ‘I told you it wasn’t far.’
He opened the door for Dorothy and they went in. The bar was small, but he found them somewhere to sit and went off to buy drinks.
‘I think you’ll like it,’ he said on his return, handing a glass to Dorothy. ‘It’s got character.’
‘It has,’ she replied, gazing round the bar. ‘I hope this won’t disappoint you, but actually I already know this place. I’ve been here before – some of my newspaper colleagues brought me. They say it’s very popular with journalists – in fact I’d say the place is probably full of hacks. But that doesn’t matter. It’s a cosy old joint, and I do like it. Now, tell me how your case is going. You said on the phone that it’s a murder, right?’
‘Yes, it’s a poor young woman who was found strangled in her flat. You’ll understand that I can’t tell you much about it, and I certainly don’t want you writing about it in that Boston Post of yours.’
‘Don’t worry. I’d have to get past your censors first, and I don’t think they’d allow me to file any copy to the States that mentions things your own press isn’t allowed to say about a case. Just tell me what you feel you can.’
‘Well, in some ways it’s what you might call a fairly conventional murder, but there’s one thing that’s worrying me. There seem to be similarities with some other crimes that were committed in the mid thirties, and pretty unpleasant they were too. Four women were murdered in their flats, most of them prostitutes, and all strangled – the first one with a silk stocking. The papers called the murderer the Soho Strangler, and it was big news.’
‘Yes, I remember hearing about it. I’m sure it was reported in the US press sometime back then. So was this woman a prostitute too?’
‘We’re not sure. There are indications that she might’ve been, but no proof, so we’re keeping an open mind. The thing is, there’s one point I’d like to confirm, and you’re the person most likely to be able to help me.’
‘Well, I’m surprised to hear that, but I’ll help if I can.’
Jago reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a buff envelope.
‘This is the stocking that was used,’ he said, opening the envelope and pulling out a few inches of the item it held. ‘I won’t take it out, otherwise someone here might think I’m a black-market trader.’
‘And call the police?’
‘Exactly. I just wondered – can you tell me what it’s made of?’
Dorothy took the material between her forefinger and thumb, and rubbed it gently.
‘Yes, I can – it’s nylon. They’re the latest thing.’
‘That’s what we thought – or rather, what Cradock thought. Apparently you can’t buy them in Britain, so neither of us has ever seen one. I’ve heard of nylon bristles on a toothbrush, but I’ve never seen it in this form. How’s it made?’
‘They call it the new miracle material – at least, I guess that’s what the people who are trying to sell it call it. It was invented in the States last year, and they say it’s made from coal. Mind you, that sounds like someone’s simplified the chemistry involved – I don’t suppose the DuPont Corporation wants the recipe to get out. Stockings like this only went on sale back home at the beginning of the year.’
‘It’ll be a long time before we see them in the shops here, then. It said in the paper today that people won’t even be able to buy silk stockings from the end of next month. Apparently the government’s going to stop the shops selling them, because we need all the silk we can get for barrage balloons and parachutes.’
‘That’s why women are starting to wear slacks,’ said Dorothy. ‘A lot of men seem to think that’s going against the natural order of things, but British girls I’ve talked to say if they can’t buy stockings they’re going to wear slacks instead, and the men will have to like it or lump it.’
‘So the question is, how did our murderer get his hands on a nylon stocking?’
‘Only on the black market, I guess.’
‘Well, the war seems to be doing wonders for the black market – it’s thriving on all the shortages. But look, let’s talk about something else. I’m determined not to go on about work all the time, but I was sure you’d know a nylon stocking if you saw one.’
‘I don’t mind you talking about your work. It’s interesting.’
‘Yes, but I told you I’d like to spend time with you, and I meant just for its own sake, not because work demands it. And what’ve I done? I’ve taken up your time asking you to identify evidence.’
‘And I have to be going pretty soon. I have work of my own to do this evening.’
‘Writing about everyday life in a London hospital?’
‘Correct. But I’ll tell you what I’d like to do. Let’s eat together.’
‘Certainly. Lunch tomorrow?’
‘No, I’m going to be very busy tomorrow with meetings and writing. How about we meet up the day after tomorrow, Wednesday, for breakfast?’
‘Breakfast? Where would you like to go?’
‘Well, I have to say it’s been very nice of you to introduce me to so many of your, er, exotic English eating places, but I like seeing you on your home ground. Let’s go to Rita’s place. What time does she open?’
‘Seven o’clock, usually. Could you manage half past seven?’
‘That would suit me fine.’
‘OK, it’s a deal. I’ll tell Cradock I’ll be in a little late.’
‘No, bring him along.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure. He’s sweet – and besides, I want to ask him how his love life’s going.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Good morning, Peter,’ said Jago with a glance at the clock as Cradock entered the CID office on Tuesday morning. ‘I trust you slept well.’
‘Morning, guv’nor. Better than yesterday, thank you. I could’ve
